Behind The Mask

Chapter 20

I look down at my hands lying in my lap, and then I move my eyes over to hers, covered in the many rings on her fingers, drawing my eyes there almost automatically. It's like the many coloured stones want to hypnotize me, drawing my attention away from what I really want to see.

My mom always said I had her hands. And I believed her, but somehow, in some strange way I struggle to recall her hands in front of me. The same hands that played with my hair, and tugged me into bed at nights, and I can't seem to remember them. What I can remember is how she told me that she had her mother's hands. It made me feel connected. After I lost my mom I would stare at my hands, knowing I had something of hers that could never be taken away from me. When I was lying in the hospital after I lost half my face I knew that nothing was forever. Not even having her hands. Her hands were gone. Burned up to ashes. Mine could have been gone if I was fast enough to bring them to my face before the acid hit me. But now... Now I am searching in her hands, in my grandmothers hands, the type of familiarity that I see in my own. The smoothness I do remember in hers.

But I just don't see it. The folds in my fingers, sitting deep on my knuckles doesn't look the same as her skin that seems to have gotten lose over the ears. She doesn't have the short nails on the tips like I do, but rather long fake nails that ruin the form of her hands. The only thing we seem to have in common is the wideness of the hands which doesn't make me feel connected to her at all.

Her rings digging into her fingers, like they haven't been taken off in decades is also different from the lonely ring on my finger that E.J. gave me, the promise that our friendship will last forever. I don't have the opportunity to search her hands for much longer, trying my best to look for something that will tie us together before she speaks.

"You had quite the blow-up there kid," my grandmother says, picking up her hot chocolate from the coffee table and taking a sip before placing it back. "But I guess I deserved that, didn't I?"

"I just want to know what happened between you and my mom, okay?" I answer. If I had to be honest with myself, I wasn't exactly getting the warm feeling I wanted to get from her. Even now that she is nice and understanding, I still feel cold toward her, not wanting to stay longer than what is needed.

"Those are old stories. Really old. But let's just say that I did something that wasn't exactly legal, and your mom fell on some hardship right after. I didn't want to help her, so she blackmailed me for money," she answers and immediately I can see the change in her posture.

"I'd like the truth. Not a watered down story," I answer, looking her in the eyes, wanting her to look at me and understand how much I need all of this. "I think I deserve at least that from you."

She sighs before she sits back on the couch again, leaning against the back of it and closing her eyes.

"You need to understand Brody... It was a different time. Things were done differently, and now... Maybe I would have done things differently now. But I'm not proud of what I did. You need to understand that..."

She opens her eyes again and looks at me before she continues.

"When I am done you might never want to see me again."

"Well, a few minutes ago you would have done anything to not have ever met me at all," I say, feeling the bitterness push up in me.

"You understand wrong Brody. I thought you were here for money," she answers.

"And even if I was? Even if I was here to blackmail you? Would you not have been glad to see your grandson? At least see that he was alive and doing okay?" I ask, sitting forward, looking her in the eyes, wanting every bit of truth she can give me.